Say Something
by Rosethorn18
Summary: A story of the time at university when Sherlock knew Victor Trevor, and the years that followed. Trigger warning: slash, drug use/abuse, profanity. Updates every Monday. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE MY MOM!
1. Chapter 1

When Sherlock Holmes had asked himself if his day could get any worse, it was a rhetorical question, not a challenge. It was only 10 a.m. and already he'd had his jacket thrown in the loo, his pencil case stolen, and his books smacked out of his hands. He honestly thought that this year would be better; a month into it, things had gotten, if anything, worse for him. He also didn't think he could hate anyone as much as he hated his brother, but the cruel men of his year had made his life hell from the moment he arrived at university.

He'd dealt with people just like them from primary school, up all the way through hellish secondary school, and now his first year at university had started the same as they all had. First, the whispers as he accidentally let his natural talents out. Then, the name-calling, the isolation, the exclusion, and the petty thievery. Finally, the beatings if he let something slip (a week wasn't a proper week unless he'd been punched).

You see, he had a unique gift: deduction. He could simply look at a person and know their entire life story, their secrets, and their worst fears and traumas. He was also a bona fide genius as well as a massive showoff, a combination that bodes well with no one. It wasn't that he intentionally tried to humiliate or hurt people; he simply didn't know how to turn it off. Needless to say, this didn't exactly make him popular with other people.

And now, to top off an abominable day, _this _had to happen on his way to The Chapel, the students' nickname for the library ("because only goody little Holmes goes in there"). Though isolated, it at least gave him a bit of respite from the constant waves of resentment. Of course, Rob Gray, rugby player extraordinaire, and three of his toadies thought it would be a laugh to nearly knock the slender genius over and make him drop his things. As he was picking up his fallen books and papers, cursing under his breath, he suddenly found a bull terrier pup attached to his ankle.

"_Jesus Christ, what the hell?_" he shouted in pain and surprise. He shook his leg, but the bloody dog simply refused to unlatch. A few men walked by, laughed at the sight of him shaking as if he were doing a mad dance, and offered no help. He tried again in vain to remove the dog.

"_Maximus, will you get back here?" _a male voice shouted. Eyes watering, Sherlock managed to turn around to see a ridiculous sight. A tall young man of a medium build was chasing lolloping down the path at top speed after the awry hound. He was dressed in simple gray trousers, and a heavy black sweater, and in his left hand he held what appeared to be a broken red lead. He saw the dog with its teeth sunk into Sherlock's ankle. He cursed loudly and grabbed Maximus, pulling with all his might. Between the two of them, they were able to pry the dog's jaws apart and Sherlock was able to get free. He collapsed to the ground in pain, the blood beginning to flow from his injury. The dog's owner cursed again and stripped off his sweater, revealing a white T-shirt beneath. He applied pressure to the wound, but it didn't stop the bleeding.

"You're going to have to go to the infirmary, mate. Can you walk?" Sherlock stood up, and nearly blacked out from the pain. He stumbled and the other man caught him. He leaned heavily into his shoulder as they made the slow, limping trek to the infirmary. Luckily, it was in the building next to The Chapel, so they didn't have far to go. The man managed to get Sherlock inside, to the shock of the nurse, a stout, gray-haired woman.

"Get that dog out of here, Trevor! This is an infirmary, not a park. What happened to him?" she asked, her eyes widening at the sight of the blood.

"Maximus broke his lead and bit him, ma'am. I _think _he's okay, but I'm no doctor." His dark ginger hair was damp with the sweat of the running and then lugging another human being. She sighed.

"Well, he'll be alright once I get him stitched up. He'll have to stay here for at least ten days, if not more, though. Come on, my dear, come over to the cot. And Trevor?"

"Yeah?"

"Get that bloody dog out of here!" The young man helped Sherlock to the cot, firmly retied the lead on Maximus, and left, whistling a tune. Sherlock rolled up his pants leg and the nurse began to clean the bite, making him wince with every dab of the damp cloth. The nurse sewed up the wound, applied disinfecting ointment, and wrapped it up tightly with a clean bandage.

"You're lucky, it's only a bit of a sprain, not a break."

"Yes, I can _see that_, thank you," Sherlock said in an annoyed voice. The nurse's eyes narrowed.

"Don't take that tone with me, boy. What's your name, anyhow?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he muttered sheepishly. Her eyes flashed recognition at the name, as everyone's did when he said it. All the schools knew of his perfect, brilliant older brother, Mycroft, who never put a toe out of line, never had to switch schools because of fighting, never had to disappoint their mother constantly.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, you're going to be here for a while, so you best cheer yourself a bit," she said, handing him pajamas, "Here, put these on. I'm going to give you something for the pin, which unfortunately is going to knock you out for a while, so you might as well be comfortable."

She patted him on the head in a motherly way and left the room to give him a bit of privacy to change. He took off his sweater, tailored trousers, and button-up shirt and folded them neatly on the bedside table, placing his black shoes under them. He put on the pajamas, crawled into the cot, and took the pills the nurse had left him, gulping them down with copious amounts of water. Blissful unconsciousness swirled over him as the medication took hold, and he closed his eyes.

When he awoke from a peculiar dream about hedgehogs, he found a large pair of electric blue eyes staring at him. Sherlock sat bolt upright, all traces of sleep gone from him as he recognized the man who owned the dog.

"What the _hell _do you think you're doing? Come to draw on me while I sleep? Seriously, why are you here?"

"I came to _apologize_, you prat. For Maximus, yesterday."

"_Yesterday?_" Sherlock asked incredulously. He barely slept, and now he had missed an entire day? Unthinkable! And even more unthinkable, someone had come to apologize to him?

"Yeah, Nurse Turner seriously drugged you out. Anyway, I also brought you these," he gestured to the stack of books on the nightstand, "since you're going to be missing classes and all. Also brought a couple of regular books so you don't die of boredom in here."

Sherlock was instantly suspicious.

"Why are you doing this? Haven't you got anything better to do?"

"Not really, no. I have a day off classes and basically, it's talking to you or talking to Maximus. And I really don't need another person to walk in on _that._"

Sherlock smiled in spite of himself, and was, for once, genuinely curious about another person.

"No friends?"

"The others don't like me much because I'm here on scholarship. I haven't got heaps of money like them, and they think that somehow makes them better than me. This is probably the longest conversation I've had with anyone besides Nurse Turner since I came here."

"I'm here on scholarship too. They're all idiots."

"I agree. Victor Trevor, by the way."

"Sherlock Holmes."

They lapsed into easy conversation, considering how little they usually spoke to others. The textbooks lay forgotten, and it was only when Nurse Turner kicked Victor out that he left the infirmary. As Sherlock lay in the cot that night, he felt an odd stirring in his chest, a stirring which he could not name, for he had never felt it before in his nearly twenty years: friendship.


	2. Chapter 2

Ch. 2

Sherlock woke up the next morning with a sunbeam hitting him, painting a streak of incandescent light across his face. For a brief moment, he didn't know where he was. _Medicinal smell, uncomfortable bed, scuffling sounds. Infirmary. _He slowly opened his oceanic eyes, blinking at the blinding light. He sat up and almost fell back down from the sharp, stinging pain in his ankle. Oh yes, the dog yesterday. It wasn't until he felt the pain that he was entirely sure yesterday hadn't been some strange dream. Someone had actually bothered to have a conversation with him? Strange! Inconceivable! He didn't have _friends_; no one liked him! _He won't be back, _Sherlock thought, _he did what he felt he had to, and won't be back. After all, why would he bother?_

He pushed the depressing thought out of his mind and picked up one of the novels that Victor had brought him from the night table. To his great surprise, it was a book of detective stories by Edgar Allan Poe, featuring C. Auguste Dupin. How on Earth did Victor know how much he loved mysteries? He opened the slim novel and started on the first story, "The Murders in the Rue Morgue." He was instantly enthralled in the thrilling tale of locked rooms, intrigue, and an unlikely murderer, which he only guessed a page or two before they were revealed, a rarity for the young genius. He was also fascinated by the detective himself, with his cold, precise reasoning and powers of observation. Finally, a protagonist he could relate to! He eagerly turned to the next story and was halfway finished when Nurse Turner came in to check on him.

"Oh, you're up, dear. Would you like a bit of tea and toast?" she asked him kindly. Realizing for the first time how famished he was, he nodded, then went back to reading "The Mystery of Marie Rogêt." Once he had finished that, he decided to save the final story for later and get started on his studying. His breakfast now eaten, he had only opened his Advanced Chemistry textbook when he heard a familiar voice from the doorway.

"You're not going to stay in your pajamas all day, are you?"

Sherlock nearly dropped his book in surprise when he looked up to see the tall figure of Victor Trevor leaning against the doorway. He had come back? Strange! Inconceivable!

"Oh, it's you!" Sherlock exclaimed in spite of himself.

"What, you thought I'd leave you here to rot? You're basically the only person I've talked to in days! How're you holding up, by the way?"

"Fine, actually. My ankle still hurts a bit, but I think I can walk. I'll ask the nurse if I can leave in a few hours or so."

"Are you thick or something? She said you'd have to stay here for ten days at the very least, so no, you're not going anywhere."

"I hate hospitals."

"Does _anyone_ actually like them? The smell, the weird over-cleanliness, the pure boredom. I broke two ribs when I was a kid and had to be in the hospital for _weeks_. I nearly went mad."

"What were you doing to break your ribs?"

Victor blushed and looked down.

"Well… I shouldn't say."

"Why not?"

"It's a bit, em, embarrassing."

"Go ooonnnnnnn…."

"Fine, I was trying to surf down the stairs in a laundry hamper. Happy?"

Sherlock roared with laughter at the mental image of Victor stair surfing. He finally got a few words out between gasps of breath.

"What… happened… next?"

"My dad nearly killed me, I'm lucky I lived to see the hospital, much less my eleventh birthday. I spent _that _alone and bored to death in the hospital."

Sherlock stopped laughing immediately.

"Alone? Didn't your parents come to see you?"

"My mum had chemo that day and my dad had to go with her to treatment."

The words struck Sherlock like a blow to the chest.

"Oh, so she…"

"Yeah, breast cancer. She died when I was twelve. Alright, enough of my sob story, what's your family like?"

"My mother used to be a maths professor, but now she writes textbooks. My father's an architect. I've got a brother, Mycroft, who works in the government."

"Is he any good?"

"He's brilliant, everyone says he'll be running the country by the time he's thirty, which isn't far off."

"Much older than you, I take it?"

"Yeah, he's seven years older and a bit of an arrogant prick. He made me think I was an idiot my entire life," Sherlock said. His admission surprised both him and Victor, but, well, Victor had shared something quite personal, hadn't he?

"You're _not _an idiot. Look at you, you'll probably be caught up on classes in no time at all," Victor said, eying the open Advanced Chemistry textbook on the night table. And Sherlock knew he meant it and was reassured.

"So what are you studying?" Sherlock asked.

"Microbiology, you?"

"Chemistry. If I put in enough hours, I can have my degree by the end of this year."

"My God, are you mad? Are you planning on eating or sleeping at all this year?" Victor asked incredulously, making Sherlock grin.

Victor stayed for the rest of the day, then returned the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. In fact, he returned all ten days until Sherlock was cleared to leave the infirmary. And each night, Sherlock's heart felt a little fuller when he went to sleep, a little less gray. For the first time in his life, he had a friend. Finally, he had someone to talk to, to relate to. And it felt good.

The last day in the infirmary, Sherlock got out of bed and got dressed. He had, of course, bathed and changed his clothes while he was injured, but it still felt comforting to put on his familiar clothing. He tied his black shoes and gingerly stood up. He felt an occasional twinge of pain in his ankle, but as he walked, he felt better and better until every last trace of the pain was gone. Hearing his footsteps, Nurse Turner came into the room.

"Oh, are you leaving now? Well, I suppose you're well enough to go back to your regular schedule. It's been lovely having you here."

"It's been nice meeting you," Sherlock said, for he had grown to like for the woman who had cared for him. She looked like she was going to say something else, then turned and abruptly swept out of the room. Sherlock shrugged, gathered up his books, and left the infirmary.

The cold air was refreshing against the skin of his face, which had been shut inside for too long. A deep breath brought a smile to his face, at least until a large hand hit his back. He, familiar with the hand, sighed, and rolled his eyes.

"Hello, Anderson, to what do I owe this pleasure?" The other boy's rodent-like face pinched in confusion as his brain tried to work out if Sherlock was being serious or not. Anderson was shorter than Sherlock, but had a sturdier build and was that awful combination of dull and cruel. Not _dull_, exactly, for he was actually of about low-average intelligence, but he despised Sherlock for his natural gift at chemistry (they were in the same class, despite Anderson being two years his senior).

"What're you smiling about, Freak?" Anderson asked.

"How ugly you are in this weather," Sherlock said, the words falling from his lips before he could stop them. The blow to his face, while expected, was no less unpleasant. Pain flared in his cheek, but before it really affected him, Anderson was raining blows on the rest of his body. He fought as well as he could, snagging in a few hard shots to the torso for himself, but Anderson had a distinct physical advantage over him. Sherlock heard a voice that could freeze the sun.

"Let him alone, Anderson," Victor said, his long, black Belstaff coat blowing in the cold wind. Anderson stopped hitting Sherlock for a moment and let out a cruel laugh.

"Has the Freak found himself a little friend, then? The Freak and The Charity Case! God, I should've known you would be together!"

Victor bristled at the insult, but didn't lose his cool. His eyes pierced Anderson's face.

"I said to leave him alone. Back the hell off, or I'll tell Amy about Sally, and we wouldn't want _that_, would we?"

Anderson blanched and let go of Sherlock's jacket. He stalked off, a short blonde woman demanding to know who Sally was. Sherlock wiped the blood off his face, a thankfully small amount.

"Ta for that, by the way."

"It was nothing. That's what friends do, isn't it?" Friends? Strange! Inconceivable! And wonderful, oh it was wonderful!

"So who's Sally?"

"Let's just say Anderson likes to have a little extra on the side. Caught them at it a week or so ago."

Despite his aching body, Sherlock laughed again as they made their way to The Chapel. After that, life was considerably better for the two men. Someone to talk to, study with, eat with, these were all brand-new experiences for the previously isolated twosome. At least, until that fateful day in October when the invitation for Sebastian Wilkes' party was passed on to them.


	3. Chapter 3

"Victor, on a scale of one to ten, this might be the worst idea you've ever had. _Why _are we going to that idiot's party?" said Sherlock. It was a cold Friday evening, and he and Victor were in Victor's bedroom, getting dressed for Sebastian Wilkes' party that they'd somehow gained an invitation to. Victor pulled his dark blue jumper over his head and attempted to flatten his unruly ginger hair, to no avail.

"Come on, this is the first and probably only party we've ever been invited to. We _have _to go."

"No, we don't. Why the hell would they invite us, if they're not planning something awful?"

Victor sighed and pulled on his long coat. He turned to face Sherlock, who was laying sprawled out on his belly on Victor's bed, dressed in his usual outfit of black trousers, a white button-up, and a dark grey jumper.

"Look, this is the first time someone's wanted to hang out with us. Seb's a decent bloke, so why shouldn't we go?"

"I'm not sure-"

"Just for an hour. We can leave after that if it gets ugly, but we should at least go for that long."

Sherlock's brow furrowed, and his head jerked up suddenly.

"Where did you get that coat? I thought those were about a thousand pounds."

Victor, by this point used to his friend's sudden outbursts, was not surprised by this sudden change of subject.

"It was my great-uncle's. Seriously, the only item in his will was giving me the coat; he gave the rest to build a homeless shelter for lost rabbits, causing my dad to go around the bend, he was so angry. A bit mad, that one. Anyway, about the party…"

"Fine, an hour shouldn't be too bad. What harm could it do?" Sherlock answered, rolling his eyes and clamboring off the bed. He stood up and while he was straightening his clothes, Victor pulled him into an enormous bear hug. Sherlock froze like a statue, not used to this affection. Victor let go quickly and busied himself at his coat, blushing and looking down. Sherlock, in spite of himself, wished he hadn't released him.

"Shall we be off, then?" he asked quietly. Sherlock nodded stiffly and they left Victor's bedroom and the building, crossing the quad to Wilkes' residence. Music was already blasting from inside the house, and the two men could see how crowded the house was.

Victor pressed the doorbell, which was answered by a man with slicked-back dark hair, a bottle of beer clutched in his right hand. His face brightened when he saw the two of them.

"Hey, glad you could make it! Drinks are in the kitchen," he said, gesturing the two of the inside. Victor tossed his coat into the stuffed closet, and they shyly pushed their way through the crowd back to the kitchen. Victor grabbed two beers out of the ice bucket and handed one to Sherlock, twisting the cap off his own and taking a swig.

"Drink, it'll help you relax and enjoy yourself," Victor said. Sherlock twisted the cap off his bottle, brought it to his lips, and took a long pull. He felt warmth growing in his belly, and his mind stopped panicking for a moment. He eagerly downed half the bottle, feeling more and more content with each passing moment. Why was he worried again?

They drained their bottles and were reaching for another one when Seb appeared, holding two shotglasses.

"Enjoying yourselves, boys? Here, take these, my treat."

They looked at each other, shrugged, too the glasses, and tossed the liquid back. Sherlock now was feeling a bit wobbly and suggested they go sit down. Victor, who was also feeling a bit ill, went with him and sat on the stairs. Seb stood over them.

"Hey, in about ten minutes, everyone's going to leave but you, me, and a few others I've picked out. I've got something fun planned." They nodded and Seb left to mingle with the other guests.

Sherlock's mind was slipping in and out of focus like a broken camera. The chatter and music warped inside his mind. He hadn't had _that _much to drink, had he? He looked over and saw Victor shaking his head and blinking as well. Now it was getting weird; Sherlock was no stranger to alcohol, but Victor had much more experience and was reeling. What was in those shots? He decided he didn't care and told his brain to shut up. The party was supposed to be fun, he didn't _need _to think. Victor turned to him.

"So what do you think Seb has planned?"

"I don't know or care, as long as it's as great as this. Cheers for bringing me here," Sherlock replied lazily. Victor leaned in closer.

"Do you mind if I kiss you right now?" he asked. Sherlock was surprised, but in his haze, he didn't seem to mind very much of anything.

"Of course not," Sherlock slurred, and Victor's mouth met his. Sherlock had never been kissed before, and had certainly never dreamed of being kissed like _this_, all full of hunger but also sweet tenderness. Victor's tongue explored his mouth and Sherlock responded by drawing him in deeper, Victor's ginger stubble scratching against his jaw and creating a curious sensation that made Sherlock melt inside. They broke apart after a minute and Victor leaned his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Alright, everyone out!" came Seb's loud call from the living room. The crowd grumbled, but cleared out, leaving Sherlock and Victor alone with Seb, a few other blokes, and one or two girls. Seb gestured them all into the living room and had them stand in a circle around the table.

"I've chosen you because you're all veritable geniuses. I believe, like me, that you're not living up to your full potential. Would you like to join me in expanding your minds?"

The guests, most of them barely able to stand upright, agreed. Seb grinned like a shark and pulled a glass jar filled with pieces of blotter paper out of his pocket. He passed out a tab to each of the guests and told them to let it melt in their mouths. Sherlock placed his on his tongue and sat on the floor with Victor, who had popped his own tab. They sat like that for a half an hour, then Sherlock's brain exploded.

The room dissolved into swirling color and he was confused and scared by the shaking sensation in his body.

"Vic… Vic.. I don't like this…" he moaned as the walls turned into a roaring ocean around him. Victor wrapped his arms around him, but Sherlock jerked away, feeling only a giant octopus attempting to envelop him. He screamed and Victor, still barely sane, held him close and pressed Sherlock's face to his chest.

"Shhh, everything's fine, okay?" he said kindly, then turned to Seb, " Oi! We're not doing this again; I'm taking him home while I still can."

"It's not safe for you to leave here," said Seb in a voice as clear as day, "You need to stay."

Victor could tell he hadn't taken the drug and boiled with anger.

"Oh, _fuck _you! Slimy bastard. Come on, Sherlock, get up," he said and hoisted him to his feet. He half-carried, half-dragged Sherlock across the quad, fighting the rolling ground under his feet and the eerie, underwater singing in his ears. He managed to get him into his room and flung him on the bed, also collapsing as the swirling sensations overtook him.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock woke up sore and confused in a bed that wasn't his own. His head felt like it was about to split open from the pain and he couldn't quite open his eyes. _Okay. Breathe. Focus. Use your senses._ He took a deep breath through the nose. _Sandalwood, sweat, dog. Victor. _Victor's room? Victor's bed? He checked himself, reassured to find he was still fully clothed in his outfit from the night before, so nothing _that _bad could've happened to him. Speaking of which, what the hell happened that night? He remembered going to the party, drinking, being kissed- wait, what? When did _that _happen? Or was it all a part of the strange dream he'd had the night before? He needed answers, and lying in bed wouldn't get them for him.

He opened his eyes and found himself alone in the room, without a sign of Victor anywhere. Had Victor gotten home alright or was he lost somewhere? Or, Sherlock gulped, would Victor be waking up in someone else's bed as well? His stomach turned as he stood up and promptly dashed down the hall. He only made it to the toilet just in time as he was violently sick, even sicker than he had been that time when he was six and got the stomach flu. Well, the doctor had _said _it was the stomach flu, but Mycroft had uncharacteristically made him a sandwich earlier that day, so he couldn't be sure. Mycroft had laughed then, and he'd laugh now if he could see Sherlock like this, on his knees and puking his guts out. After retching for several minutes, the contents of his stomach were at last purged and he stood up shakily and flushed the toilet. His head reeled as he stumbled out of the bathroom and down the stairs to the communal kitchen, where he found Victor nursing a cup of coffee at the table.

"Oh, you're up," Victor said when he saw him. When Sherlock didn't respond, he prompted, "Please, say something. Are you okay?"

"Okay? _Okay?_" Sherlock practically shouted, "I was drugged and I can't remember anything about what happened! The only thing I can remember is the horrible dreams and waking up in your bed. How did I even get here?"

Victor cleared his throat and when he looked up, Sherlock could see how red-rimmed his eyes were, as if he'd been crying,

"Seb passed out tabs of what I think was acid and it really affected you, probably more than anyone else. You were shaking like a leaf and screaming, so I barely managed to get you back here before passing out myself. _Seb _didn't fucking take it though, the prick."

"Acid? Oh, that explains the weird dreams. There was this stormy ocean and this gigantic monster, and for some reason, a _kiss_. Hallucinations, that's all it was."

Victor's eyes started watering again and Sherlock briefly wondered if it was an after effect of the drug. He'd have to look into it later.

"The kiss was, um…." Victor trailed off, but Sherlock got the message. His eyes widened in understanding.

"We-we don't have to talk about it, since you're clearly upset about it. We were both really plastered, we can just forget it ever happened," Sherlock said, a blush creeping up onto his ears. Come to think of it, he didn't really _want _to forget about it, for an unknown reason. Victor's eyes looked close to bursting by this point.

"I want to talk about. Hell, I need to talk about it. Okay, here goes nothing. I'm sorry it happened like that, but I'm not sorry it happened," he said, and he looked up to gauge Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock was frozen as his mind struggled to comprehend what had just been told to him. The words were totally unfamiliar, as was the feeling blooming inside his chest like a warm ray of sunlight. A side effect of the acid and alcohol, or something else entirely. He remembered Mycroft's phone call the day before he left for university '_Don't get involved. Caring is NOT an advantage, little brother.' _He'd never really thought about any sort of relationship, simply because no one, be it male or female, could stand to be around him. Was Victor suggesting what he thought he was suggesting? And what did that make Sherlock? If he was truly a machine, as he'd been called countless times, smoke would be billowing out his ears as his great brain was put into frenzied overdrive while he desperately searched for any sort of data to give him a response. Finding none, he just went with the first thought to pop into his head and out of his mouth.

"I don't regret it either. In fact, I'm glad it happened because you're just so-" Sherlock rambled and swiftly clasped his hand over his mouth before more word vomit could escape his lips. Victor's eyes lit up at Sherlock's blathering.

"So what?" he asked. Sherlock unclamped his hand from his mouth as the stream of words started again.

"Amazing, fantastic, incredible-" he clasped his hand over his mouth again.

"Since you don't regret it, and I don't either, would you mind if I did it again?" Victor asked quietly, his face already braced for rejection.

"I'd like that," Sherlock replied, and was about to spurt more words when he was silenced by Victor's mouth against his.

It wasn't like the last time. It wasn't full of the hunger and need that the last kiss had; it was sweet and slow. Victor had his hands gently entwined in Sherlock's dark curls as he kissed him softly.

Sherlock's mind had stopped briefly, but when it started again, it started _violently_. His mind screamed at him to stop, this was wrong, this could never happen! He broke the kiss first and leapt back, now pressed against the wall, breathing hard. His blue eyes were blown wide and staring in fear, of all things. Victor looked so hurt and when he spoke, his voice sounded hollow and broken.

"What's wrong? I thought you were okay with this. "

"It's complicated," Sherlock said, taking a deep breath.

"Come sit down," Victor said and gestured to the chair across from him," Let's talk about it. You haven't got a girlfriend tucked away somewhere, have you? Because I swear to God, hearing that might actually kill me."

Sherlock took the chair and put his head in his hands on the table.

"No, I haven't got a girlfriend; they're not exactly my area. Or a boyfriend, in case you were wondering. Well, I guess it's my brother."

"Your brother?" Victor asked, perplexed.

"Not him, per say, but something he told me just before I came here. He told me not to get involved with anyone, saying '_they'll eat you alive and spit you out. You're not like them, you're not enough for any of them.' _"

Victor crooked his finger under his chin and tilted his face upwards.

"Hey, don't you _ever _think you're not good enough," he said, and pulled him in for another kiss. This one was short, as they could hear footsteps on the stairs approaching the kitchen. They broke apart and were left smiling as they went up to their rooms, dressed, and went their separate ways to class.

Advanced Chemistry was hell for Sherlock, a staggering departure from the norm. His classmates were arseholes, but he usually really enjoyed the subject. Today they were being lectured on the new method of properly balancing complex equations, but try as he might, he could not pay attention. Finally, the class got out and he was free, at least until his next class. The rest of his classes that day passed much the same, an endless cycle of boredom and restlessness.

Since Victor still had another class that day, Sherlock decided to kill an hour or two in the Chapel. He made the trek down the winding pathway and amazingly, nobody bothered him. He got the usual amount of stares, but no one called out cruelly or grabbed at him. As a matter of fact, people saw him, and quickly looked away, as if afraid he might violently attack them if they looked at him the wrong way. While it was admittedly a nice change, something didn't quite sit right with him. Shaking his head, he entered the Chapel.

It was empty except for a few students, Seb Wilkes being one of them. Sherlock vaguely recognized the rest as people from the 'afterparty.' Except for Seb, they all looked as wrecked as he had felt all morning, save for those brief moments with Victor.

"Holmes!" Seb said, waving him over, "Come sit with us; we've got loads to talk about."

Sherlock went over and took a chair across from Seb, who was sitting on one of the low couches. He settled in, still apprehensive and uneasy about the day.

"How did you like our little party?" Seb asked him once he was comfortable.

"Um, it was okay. I can't remember most of it," Sherlock replied, making Seb howl with laughter.

"Just a side effect, my friend! But hasn't your mind been positively _buzzing _with ideas today? I know mine has." Sherlock immediately scanned Seb, _skin fresh, eyes not darting, hands calm._

"You didn't take the drug," Sherlock flatly stated. Seb's eyes flashed briefly, but the collected mask soon came back on.

"I've done it so many times; I have a much higher tolerance to it than you lot. You know how tolerance works, we have the same chemistry course. Hence, no side effects. What do you remember?"

What Seb said was a very logical conclusion. Sherlock did have an extensive knowledge of substance tolerance, and it matched what Seb had described. Perhaps Victor had simply misread the signs in his own haze; after all, Victor wasn't a Chemistry major.

"An ocean and this terrifying _thing _that was going to get me. At least, that's what my brain saw, I don't know about my body."

"You don't remember beating the shit out of Paul Wallace? I've never seen anything like it; you were like a wild animal."

Sherlock blinked. "I'm sorry, _what? _Paul's the rugby captain, I couldn't beat him if I tried."

"Tell that to him. He's laid up in the infirmary probably until the end of the week. I have to admit, whatever the drug did to you, it's for the better. But back to the question, what has it been like in your brain today?"

Sherlock reflected back to the day.

"I haven't been able to focus on anything, but I've gotten all of my coursework done in half the time."

"Do you want to feel it again?" Seb asked with a grin.

"I don't know," Sherlock said, hesitating," the hallucinations were _not _pleasant_._ And I don't know about Victor-"

"What about him?"

"He said it got really bad, really fast. Look, can I get back to you later? I need to talk to him."

"Soon, alright? I want to know who I can rely on for another small get-together in a week or two."

Sherlock nodded and went to the forensics section of the Chapel. A few hours later, he checked out his books and left. He walked back to his building, now actively noticing the way people looked away from him. It was as if they saw a monster poised to spring the moment the wire was tripped. It was nice, and if something made the idiots stop, who was he to say it was wrong? He entered the building and got some tea, toast, and beans from the kitchen, making enough for Victor as well. He then went down to the cozy basement, where he found Victor crashed out on the sofa, reading a book about Egyptian pharaohs, a peculiar fascination of his. He set his book aside when he saw Sherlock come in.

"Hey, what's up? You look like you've seen a ghost or something."

"Ghosts don't exist, but I met Seb in the Chapel once classes got out."

Victor's smile vanished and his hands clenched into fists, casting shadows in the firelight.

"And? What did he say?"

"He wanted to know if we'd be interested in attending another one of his 'small get-togethers' sometime."

"What did you tell him?"

"I said I'd talk to you. I think we should do it."

"_Are you mad?"_ Victor spluttered, "That arsehole's last get together nearly wrecked you! And you want to go back?"

"Vic, listen to me, I've never felt like this before. It's like my mind is both racing and focusing at the same time. Don't you feel it too?"

"Come to think of it, yeah, I have. Exploding all day long, it has."

"And it's great. So what's the harm in going to another one?"

Victor finally gave in.

"Alright, but if it gets nasty, we don't go again. Agreed?"

"Agreed. If you don't mind, I'm going to play for a little while," Sherlock said, picking up his violin. The basement was basically soundproofed, so he wouldn't disturb the other residents of the house if he played down there, which was often.

"No, I don't mind; I like hearing you play. Know any from _Les Misérables?_" Victor asked, referring to a favorite musical of his. His love of history had led him into the French Revolution, and he developed a passion for it.

Smiling, Sherlock set the violin under his chin, and began to play 'Stars.' Victor, once he had finished his gratefully-received food, began to softly sing in his rich baritone. Sherlock's heart skipped and his brain sang, and the drug was not the cause of this thrilling, newfound sensation spiraling through his body.


End file.
